Taken By the Night
by Greenaleydis
Summary: Someone is killing off former Death Eaters, and their next target is Professor Malfoy. With young students coming into Hogwarts for the Sorting Feast, the stakes have never been higher. But facing potential death is the least of the professor's problems - and apparently the least of Auror Granger's as well. Written for Strictly Dramione's Summer Love Fest. Beta'd by NeverNik.


**~ : Taken By the Night : ~**

Professor Malfoy leaned on the cracked stone ledge, peering out over the dark forest as the sunset saturated the land in gold. The hour was getting late, preluded by the sun disappearing behind the lake; in the distance, a single column of steam rose into the air, from a train no doubt, just arriving from across the valley.

Like he usually did on this day, the professor couldn't help but think back to being on that train, in a time that - in retrospect - seemed a lot simpler. Fearing for his life had not been in his daily set of worries, at least not before the Dark Lord returned. And now it seemed like he was back to that constant state of fear, wondering as he turned a corner whether this was going to be it, examining every forkful of food he ate, waking up in a cold sweat, looking around frantically for a jet of green light.

Instead, he consciously repeated counter-curses in his head, like a protective, calming mantra. _Anapneo. Finite incantatem. Protego. Repulso. Salvio hexia -_

"Sir, do you mind stepping away from the window?"

Draco sighed, annoyance spiking in his heart for the wet-nosed Auror standing in the middle of his quarters, and leaned away from the breeze; as he crossed to his desk, the Auror went to the window and closed the marled glass, struggling with the ancient hinges until the window clicked into place.

Given that he may die tonight, Draco slid his remaining luxury - a three-hundred galleon bottle of brandy - off his shelf, examining the tinted glass. He hadn't eaten yet, but it wouldn't do him any good to save the damn thing until after dinner if he was dead, would it? Professor Slughorn would probably find it and gulp it down in that event.

Draco uncorked the bottle with some effort, sighing at the satisfying 'pop.' Even from this distance he could smell it - beautifully pungent, potent enough to sear his sinuses if he got too close. The dark amber liquid was more than ready to lubricate his entry into the afterlife. Should it come to that.

Resisting the urge to take a swig from the bottle - he was still a gentleman, not that it mattered anymore - he grabbed the single crystal glass on his nearby nightstand and poured a finger or two.

"Quite the spectacle, all this," he commented.

The Auror nodded once and said, "All necessary, Professor. Once we've caught the Blood Killer, you can rest easy."

Draco snorted, taking a sip, cringing against the initial shock of the liquor.

He suddenly became aware of soft footsteps ascending, getting louder; as he turned toward the noise, the young Auror was already in an offensive pose, wand steadily trained on a spot just around the corner. After a moment, the tense Auror relaxed as a shadow passed over him.

"Evening, Auror Granger," he said, and Draco's eyebrows shot into his hairline; oh, how perfect was _this?_ They hadn't told him who would be on guard with him tonight, but now he had not only a protector but also an hour or two of entertainment.

"Evening, Auror Samson," she replied, sparing no glance in Draco's direction as he topped off his drink, a smirk puckering his cheeks.

"Last checks are currently being made. The south team has finished sweeping the grounds. Anything to report?"

The young Auror shook his head. Hermione straightened her armor and went to the window to look out.

"You made the final checks in the downstairs corridor yourself, yes?"

The Auror confirmed, and Hermione sighed heavily as she looked out the window.

"Be sure to double check the floo. The professor takes late calls sometimes."

Draco shook his head, his smirk deepening as the Auror affirmed shakily and went to the smoldering fireplace, poking his head directly where a flame would consume him should anyone ring.

Being babysat was not how Draco liked to spend his time, especially since he wasn't allowed to do any work, for he had to stay aware of his surroundings. The Aurors hadn't said anything about no alcohol though. Draco smirked and sipped his brandy. Despite feeling cooped-up and condescended to, drinking was a much better idea than working on his syllabuses for the spring.

He'd spent the past three weeks developing an entirely new lesson plan for his fifth years, despite the little voice in the back of his head questioning why he was bothering if he was going to die. Perhaps he'd been hoping that he'd at least be able to start the term with his students, get them excited about learning how to duel correctly before their teacher was replaced with someone with a decidedly more untarnished past.

No, don't think about it, stay calm. _Anapneo. Finite incantatem. Protego. Repulso..._

"Urgh, why tonight," Draco grumbled, shaking his head.

It wasn't a question, but the young Auror answered anyway. "The killer's M.O., sir. Always a public place, always plenty of witnesses and yet no one has seen them. And always one step ahead of our security."

Granger glared at the Auror, and he scratched at his nose, dropping his head. He ducked outside the doorframe, muttering something about rechecking the stairwell.

"They tell me these quarters previously belonged to Professor Snape," Hermione mused, lifting a book with the tip of her wand and examining the cover.

So she _was_ going to talk to him. Perfect.

"They did," Draco replied, glancing around.

For a teacher's quarters, the rooms were somewhat standard - queen bed tucked into a corner, with a single, ancient lamp on the nightstand; connected washroom, the door ajar and light on, as Draco had just finished getting ready for the evening. A hint of steam filtered through the crack under the door.

Upon his desk was a stack of tomes so old the weathered pages were peeling back like old scabs, blistered and brittle; the now half-full bottle of brandy sat uncorked, contents still. The only ornate bit of furniture in the room was a handsome, plush armchair, its legs twisted and perched upon the floor like those of a pony. Its rich gold and blue brocade, though somewhat worn, easily stood out in the dull brown of the rest of the room.

Hermione turned and nodded to the Auror in the doorway, and the man swiftly closed the door.

In the silence, Draco observed Auror Granger as she examined the cracks in the walls, opened his wardrobe, ducked into his washroom.

"Looking for someone?" he asked, and then slyly continued, "You should know that I rarely have late guests."

"Fallacies," she corrected, "places the killer could hide, exploit to their ends."

"That is hardly necessary, the place was searched no more than an hour ago."

"But not by me," she said heavily, twisting his brandy bottle around to read the label.

"Perfect timing, actually, would you be so kind?" he asked, holding out his glass.

Hermione took the brandy bottle by the neck and thrust it into his chest with an annoyed sigh.

Draco sat heavily in his armchair, refreshing his drink. Oaky and mild now, hint of plum... so delicious.

When he was finished, he held the bottle out in offering, but Auror Granger curtly shook her head. "Need to stay sharp," she murmured.

"On the contrary, I believe a little booze might loosen you up. Make you react faster." He feigned a punch and dodge, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"No need to ask your opinion of Aurors," she said, crossing her arms as she went to the window.

"No, don't get the wrong idea. I find it fascinating what you do. Lock up criminals, save kittens in trees." He took a sip. "Catch murderers."

"If you're trying to get a rise out of me, save your breath," she muttered, opening the window a crack. Just enough to get the stiff air moving again.

"Oh, so it _wasn't_ your department that failed to catch this bloke before he murdered my father?"

Hermione turned to look at him; Draco's smile was smug, but his eyes were hard and glossy. They stared at each other for a long moment, Draco challenging her to fight with him, say something that could cut him, give him a reason to lash out at her. But it was apparent that she was too smart for that, and recognized his invitation to argue.

Draco used to idolize the man, and despite their publicly-strained relationship, especially after the trials and the petty squabbling over their assets, he cared deeply for the elder Malfoy. In fact, besides the goons that stayed by his side up until the end of the War, the professor didn't have any friends or acquaintances that he cared about that much.

Who could be his friend, given what he'd done during the War, who he still was despite his scholarly accolades?

"Chief Auror Potter has given the case to me now," Granger said softly, "and I intend to see it through. And catch this person."

The professor stifled a snort. "And you're _positive_ he's going to try tonight."

"We've got the note. And with the whole country watching, waiting... why not?"

"Who is to say he won't try tomorrow? The day after?"

Hermione uncrossed her arms, taking one last glance out the window - the first carriages could be seen bringing students through the dark forest no more than ten minutes away - and leaned against the frame, facing Professor Malfoy properly. "Whoever this is, they're trying to make a point. They _want_ it to be difficult to get you, it means that they've outsmarted us all. That no one is safe once they've decided to kill."

Draco opened his mouth to make another snide comment - this one aimed at the fact that the Auror Office's efforts hadn't saved some of the former Death Eaters placed under the Imperious curse - but refrained. This entire mess was hard for their community, as there was already a public outcry condemning the release of the Death Eaters. Even with Azkaban Prison's reforms and new rehabilitation programs, nobody truly wanted to see Death Eaters lead normal lives, not after what they had done to tear the country apart. The hatred was at the bottom of everyone's hearts; the killer had just decided to do something about it.

"If I'm next on his list," Draco said evenly, twirling his glass, "what makes you think you can stop him?"

"I can assure you, protecting you is my top priority, Malfoy."

"Not a dream job for you, I'm sure," he murmured, eyeing her over his brandy.

Hermione ignored him, turning back to the window and watching the carriages unload rowdy students beyond the gate.

The other Aurors had doubled the protective enchantments surrounding the grounds, so anyone carrying dark artifacts would be immediately bound and incapacitated. Every faculty member and returning student would be thoroughly searched at the gate, and all the teachers within the walls had already been submitted to questioning about the weeks leading up to this night. The Aurors weren't going to mistakenly discount lost souls like Draco in his younger years this time, and overlook students with ties to the War.

In fact, it seemed like there was no possible way for the killer to get in - the Aurors had sealed the secret passages, and the cavern leading to the Chamber of Secrets had long since collapsed. Even the sewer system was being carefully guarded by the queen of the merpeople and her private guard. Heaven forbid the merpeople caught the killer; there was likely to be nothing left of the perp by the time the Aurors got there.

 _Anapneo. Finite incantatem. Repulso..._

"Sometimes I think about what would happen if the killer succeeded," Draco mused, leaning back. "No more former Death Eaters. All of them getting their comeuppance."

Silence.

"I guess you wouldn't have to acknowledge anything _awkward_ with one of them, then," he continued. "If they're all dead."

She was listening, he knew, despite not saying anything, and Draco was getting a small amount of comfort from talking and thus avoiding the thoughts tumbling around in his brain.

"All the Death Eaters, anyone Marked, even the imperioused ones. Dead. And most of us were purebloods-"

"I know," Granger murmured.

"...Entire magical lines would be extinguished, surely resulting in the eventual demise of our community."

"No more of that purity hogwash from you."

"It's not hogwash, Granger, it's a fact. The magical gene is strongest in pureblood lines, capable of being passed on at a high success rate. But in half-blood or muggleborn families... the chances that your child is magic-less is slightly greater."

"Slightly," she retorted, "and certainly not a reason to feel superior to other wizards."

Draco shrugged, rolling the chilled glass over his stubble, something he wouldn't normally do in company... but since when did a thing like manners matter anymore, with the state of things? It certainly hadn't mattered for Walden MacNair, when he tried to hide the fact that he was being poisoned for the sake of maintaining a calm facade at his dinner party. It hadn't mattered when the Aurors finally took away Draco's mother for dealing in dark artifacts, and her stiff upper lip had been mistaken for unrepentant contempt.

And who cared anymore? Draco had nothing to his name beyond a collection of antique furniture, screaming family portraits and crippling debt. Anyone who mattered was either dead, still in Azkaban, or looked down on him anyway.

 _Anapneo. Finite incantatem. Repulso. Protego..._

"Sometimes I wish he would just do it already," Draco sighed.

"Don't give up on me," Granger replied dryly, not sounding the least bit impressed nor concerned.

Draco smirked again, taking another healthy swig from his glass. He let out an exaggerated exhale, throat burning and senses on fire, but Auror Granger spared him no glance, just quietly adjusted her pauldrons.

 _Anapneo. Finite incantatem. Repulso. Protego. Anapneo..._

As the minutes stretched on, Draco racked his brain, trying for the millionth time to figure out how the killer was going to get in, what their goal was...

The killer was a showboat, and loved to make fools out of the Auror Office and the Ministry, taking out targets in public spaces, under watchful eyes. But with all the entrances guarded, it seemed improbable that the perp would try to sneak in via an entrance.

Even the towers were being watched, the skies checked for rogue brooms or other flying machines...

Draco took another sip, recognizing that the alcohol was starting to work - his hands weren't shaking anymore, and he could look at a gruesome death as a funny end to his life rather than something to be afraid of. At least, he was still trying to convince himself that he wasn't afraid.

 _Anapneo. Finite incantatem. Repulso..._

"This is incredibly boring," Draco muttered, finishing his drink and pouring himself another.

"Might want to go easy on the brandy, Malfoy. I can't guarantee your safety if you're slobbering drunk," Hermione said, not even looking.

Draco ignored that, taking a sip as he watched the former Gryffindor stare out the window, the breeze lifting her curls off her shoulders. She seemed much taller than he remembered, and definitely more fit, though he couldn't tell if that was an illusion of her Auror armor or her actual physicality. Training had definitely hardened her for sure; he could see a certain grit in the set of her jaw, her watchful eyes, the definition of her arms.

Rubbing a thumb over his glass, he thought back to all the times he'd seen her on the street in the past few years; always alone, walking with purpose, noticing him and then pretending that she hadn't.

He wondered if she'd toughened up as a result of her training, of the death and combat she'd seen, or if it was the result of the words so carelessly thrown at her in her youth. Or perhaps it was that one night... was it him or the world that had made her thus?

"Any idea what the killer's goal is?" Draco asked.

Auror Granger didn't even flinch; her eyes were trained somewhere beyond the gates as the sunset faded from purple to blue.

"I mean, beyond killing off all the old money. The Ministry has to be making a fortune off this guy."

The breeze filtering through the window lifted the Auror's dark curls off her shoulders for a moment, and Draco watched her hair dance as the tendrils collided.

"I'm not saying that the Ministry is behind it, but it is possible. With any luck, the killer is just a green-eyed mongrel secretly cleaning out bank accounts," he murmured conversationally.

"No one's bank account has been touched."

Oh, so she _was_ still willing to talk. Good. "Well, that's what I'd do. It's a nice little gig. Off someone, get some gold-"

"What makes you think the killer isn't a dark wizard?" she asked.

Draco looked into his glass, watching the ever-frozen cubes of ice tumble around. "No vision. A true dark wizard has a purpose beyond getting revenge or getting rid of his competition. If it were a dark wizard, he'd have sooner recruited the former Death Eaters than murdered them. No... for this guy, it's personal. They feel snubbed or cheated somehow. Left out. Or perhaps they hate what the Death Eaters did to their family's name. And they want to wipe all trace of them from the world."

Hermione sighed and commented, "It sounds like you think the perp is a pureblood."

He tilted his head at her, his smirk deepening with a private joke, and said, "His methods reek of a god complex."

"So you don't think it's possible that some muggleborn out there was pushed too far, and began killing those who sought to persecute them?"

"It's certainly possible," Draco replied, "but wildly unlikely. When's the last time you met a muggleborn willing to kill?"

Hermione stared at him for a few seconds, then went back to concentrating on what was happening outside. The moon was rising behind the trees, the sky finally dark enough to warrant the torches to burst into light. The flames cast a yellow glow over the Aurors on the grass below.

"Either way, let me know if you need a hand."

Hermione sighed like she was reaching the bottom of her patience and said, "If we know that we're dealing with a dark wizard, we'll gladly defer to your scholarly expertise."

"You mean my 'tactical' expertise," he corrected.

Her responding smile looked more like a grimace.

"That's why I'm such a good teacher," Draco continued, taking another sip. "I've got real-world experience with dark magic. I can prepare the kids better than anyone. Protect them from dark wizards trying to recruit them."

"And who protects them from _you?_ " she scathed.

Draco's smile slipped, his eyes turning cold. The facade had cracked; time had done nothing but create distance between them, but that distance had not left enough room for old wounds to heal. She seemed as bitter now as the day she'd helped save his life, the day she lay upon the cold marble, the day she'd shown him how rough the backside of her hand was. And if he was going there... also the day he'd discovered exactly what her hair smelled like, how her breath tasted after four shots of firewhiskey, the feel of the wrinkles she left in his sheets -

Draco carefully deposited his glass on the desk next to him, gaze fixed on her.

"It's been years, Granger," he said lowly. "What makes you think I'd take out my shitty childhood on my students? Who do you take me for - Snape?"

"And so your pureblood bias hasn't carried over into your job? Can you know that for certain?" She tilted her head back, a light smirk pulling up the corner of her lips. "Find any poor muggleborn girls to torment?"

Draco shook his head, grabbing his glass with such force that his family ring chimed against the crystal, the liquid within sloshing as he took a sip. He swallowed and replied evenly, "I'd hardly call that night 'torment'."

Granger leaned back, looking away as she muttered, "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

He eyed her, reigning in the deep ire that flared at her words, and said quietly, "As for our Hogwarts years... I wouldn't dare put any child through that."

"Certainly didn't stop you back then."

"I was a monster," he declared. "A savage, useless brat. You don't think I've learned how to be human since then?"

Her jaw was set, and though he could see in her eyes that she didn't actually believe him to be a monster, it didn't stop the bubble of desperate irritation rising in his chest that wanted to prove that he was better, prove that the last seven years had meant something.

Or at the very least, deflect her accusatory comments.

"If you think I'm such a creep then why are you doing this?" he asked hotly. "Why bother with me?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, looking away determinedly.

"Some tosh about doing your job? Completing a case? _Saving_ someone?"

She shook her head.

"Ah, I see. It's some Gryffindor nonsense about doing the right thing then, isn't it? The bigger man - or in your case, the bigger woman."

"Wrong again," she murmured, staring out the window.

"What is it, then?" he asked, crossing one leg over the other like it was all a game.

She turned to look at him, her mouth open, lips ready to form words, but they seemed to catch in her throat; Draco stared at her desperate expression, his own expression changing from gleeful yet annoyed triumph to confusion, and then... understanding.

After all these years, there was some other force at play, something he had never picked up on that extended beyond one drunken night or the occasional glance on the street.

"Oh," he said softly, lowering his glass, and Hermione blinked, looking away.

They sat in silence for a time, Hermione watching the carriages pull up to the gate, offloading students. One by one the students were searched, their pockets turned out and any illusions they had performed on themselves washed away. Chatter could already be heard in the Great Hall as the teachers funneled the students to their house tables.

In the room, Draco tried to ignore his companion's breathing, slightly more apparent in the last few minutes than before. He couldn't tell if that was because he was listening for it or because something had changed, something had happened to make it harder for air to enter her lungs.

Even saying it out loud felt so wrong, so foreign, that his voice inflected as he managed, "You _fancy_ me."

She didn't respond, only leaned further into the wall as she watched what was happening outside.

"Can I ask why?" Draco murmured.

"Once I know for myself, I'll let you know," she returned, lightly checking that her wand was still secure.

"You don't know?"

"Why won't you just shut it?" she grumbled. "And why do you care anyway?"

"Because despite your attempts to convince me otherwise, some part of you loves how messed up I am. And that fascinates me."

It was certainly the truth: the revelation of her feelings was far more interesting a topic than needling her about the Blood Killer. In fact, it was probably the most exciting thing that he'd learned in a while, and he couldn't quite recognize the quivery feeling in his chest, like when touching a surface that was unexpectedly smooth.

As Hermione stared out the window, with only the single dusty oil lamp illuminating her face, Draco watched her, taking slow sips of his brandy.

It had never occurred to him to actually look at her; his eyes always passed over her in search of something else, only resting to find something to needle her about, some flaw to reflect back at her.

With steady attention and a little alcohol to smooth out his thoughts, he found himself noticing more details about her that surely he knew, but had never paid attention to before: the length of her hair, curls loosely tied back in a low ponytail that had clearly gone frizzy underneath; a series of moles dotting the underside of her jaw and neck, moving and stretching as she breathed; her somewhat poor standing posture, accented by her cross-armed stance, her back rounded at the top.

Some of these attributes would formerly have been considered flaws, flaws that he could exploit to torment her, but in this moment they only served to make her seem more real. She wasn't the polished and thoroughbred vixens he'd always imagined ending up with, not that he'd indulged in that fantasy recently. She also wasn't someone who would fawn over him the way Pansy had, as though she was bewildered that he was even interested.

No, her attention was odd, yes, but also... true. She still actively disliked Draco, that was clear, so whatever tenderness she had for him was based in something beyond illusion.

A million colliding thoughts began to bubble in his mind - questions about how he had never noticed, and contrarily how could he _not_ have noticed; memories of her younger self from different angles, and how when the afternoon light had filtered through the windows of the Transfiguration room her hair was edged in golden wires; a desperate search for the memories of their drunken night together, and what on earth had led up to that; inklings of tonight, and how _she_ was here, out of any other Auror, to be his personal security detail for the evening...

"I wondered why it was you on guard," Draco put forth. "Surely one of the lower-ranking Aurors would have sufficed for this job."

Granger sighed, short and staccato, and replied, "I already told you, this case was given to me."

"But you don't need to do the field work yourself. You've got grunts for that."

"I am one of the top field Aurors in Europe, Malfoy."

"And yet, with all the security, your skills are redundant here. Appreciated, but unnecessary. Which makes me wonder why - "

"Are you seriously teasing me? Have you no shame?"

"I-" Draco stopped, recognizing that he was getting carried away, as he often did. He'd spent enough time behind a bottle to know what kind of drunk he was, and he was quickly heading there, pushing and pushing until something snapped, for he'd stopped having a filter around the same time somebody wanted him dead.

He tried again. "No, I'm not. I..." Draco swallowed, his gaze falling to the floor, "I don't know what I'm doing."

Hermione leaned further on the window, peering below it to watch the remaining students filter through the doors.

"It's... just odd to me that someone still thinks about me," he finished.

"No one said that," Hermione retorted, just loud enough for Draco to hear, as the front doors finally closed, the force of it shaking the facade, rumbling in the room.

Draco shook his head, cursing the flicker of whatever that had been for a moment there - hope, or excitement, or maybe just a sliver of contentment - and leaned back in his armchair, lazily sipping the brandy. It was quickly becoming sweeter and sweeter, and every time the liquor ignited his senses it dulled the fear just a little bit, the fear that he'd been trying to cover up with sarcastic indifference all night. _Anapneo..._

"How long?" Draco asked absently.

Auror Granger wasn't going to give him an inch, he already knew this, but it didn't stop him from wanting to push.

"Since that night?" he added.

He couldn't have known then if his indifference had cut her, if his presumption of them being on the same page had been nothing but a guess. At the time they'd both been too sodden to make heads or tails of it, anyway; his memory of the sex had been lost to the black hole at the bottom of a bottle, and the only thing he could definitively remember was a blur of skin and desperation, followed by the horrendously awkward sight the next morning of her frantically searching his room for her clothes.

Draco sighed, thumbing over his glass. "You're right. It doesn't matter."

The only sound was of the voices beginning to filter up from below, as some teachers made their way to the Great Hall and shared a laugh before the first year students arrived.

"We should talk about that night though," he tried again.

"What is there to talk about?"

"I don't know. It apparently meant something to you. We should-"

"What would we talk about? About how we were drunk enough to think that fooling around was a good idea? It was a mistake, Malfoy-"

"A _mistake?_ "

"To be honest, I don't even remember what happened-"

"Well, _I_ do. And it was... phew!" he breathed, shaking his head, determined to indulge in hyperbole for the sake of making her uncomfortable. "It was certainly not a _mistake_."

Hermione stared at him, and he was satisfied to see something like surprise pass over her eyes. Draco's head dropped back as he continued softly, "What a night."

"I don't remember what happened," Hermione said evenly, "but I do remember the morning after. Waking up in a place I swore to never step foot in again. Feeling like I wanted to peel my skin off for ever letting you touch me."

Draco's heart fell, his hands tingling as he processed her words, and the hate he had for himself was bolstered. A part of his mind thrashed, wanting to scream at her that she'd done him _despite_ hating him, and what did that say about her? But he consciously bit his tongue, knowing that it was a little late to struggle over the past, especially since there was a chance that in a few hours... nothing would matter anyway.

 _Protego..._

"I still don't think it was a mistake," Draco murmured, lightly touching his glass.

"You're drunk," she retorted, "and that was exactly the problem last time."

"You were pissed too, Granger. It wasn't just me."

"Yes, well, a bunch of the men I'd put in Azkaban were walking the streets again, what was I supposed to do?"

"I guess you could have killed them," Draco said heavily. "But it looks like someone beat you to it, didn't they?"

Auror Granger gave him an almost imperceptible smirk before turning back towards the window.

At the time, the idea of having sex with her was so ludicrous, so unbelievable it was almost a comical thought; in fact, he wouldn't be sure it had actually happened if he hadn't gotten into a tiff with her the next morning when they woke up, both too hungover and unprepared to treat the situation with any sort of tact.

Now it didn't seem so odd; his bed wasn't frequented, not at all, but given how much history there was between them, how much anger and animosity, it seemed less odd that the anger could be redirected towards something... physical. It certainly seemed less odd than Draco needing protection, or his empty vault, or even turning his life to one of public service and education.

So much good that had done... he was going to die for his involvement in the War anyway.

Draco craned his neck to see what was happening outside, but it was useless unless he wanted to stand again, and he was already starting to mold into his armchair, his limbs heavy as the alcohol began to take control.

He stared at his protector instead, completely unabashed as he ran his fingers through his hair.

Having everything to lose was making him feel like... he actually had nothing to lose. Death was imminent, if the killer was as diabolical as Draco knew him to be. He'd given up trying to figure out how the killer was going to get in, how he was going to sneak past the security. He'd already stopped being too careful, shoulders tensed up, waiting for a full-body bind or a tongue-vanishing spell. He'd already stopped repeating counter-curses in his head... _anapneo. Finite incantatem. Protego... protego..._

He was feeling dangerous, wild, as though the ticking of his internal clock was about to come to an end and he could see that end in the distance, the darkness at the bottom of the fall. And he was _angry_ at that fear; it made him feel weak.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but... he was tired of living like this, always on edge, unable to find joy in anything beyond living to the next second. And even that was colorless, tasteless, _fruitless,_ as the people surrounding him wouldn't care if he vanished as easily as the killer did into the night. The only thing left now was the kids, bright-eyed and clueless, as they brandished their wands clumsily in his class, completely unprepared for what awaited them in the world beyond the castle walls. Not just the dark arts, but other tastes they had yet to experience - disappointment, regret, the loss of their innocence as they would inevitably have to do too much, too young.

As for the young purebloods, they had even more to look forward to: looking into the mirror and facing their hollow entitlement, their loss of privilege, how empty their games of status and superiority were. By then they would be used to taking and taking, more and more, and in the end they should have everything in the palms of their hands. But when they opened their fists, there would be nothing in them: just the uncalloused skin of a skill-less nobody.

 _Protego. Anapneo. Finite incantatem..._

Draco watched Granger as she breathed; unlike his, her breath was now steady, her stance strong and gaze watchful. For a moment, he felt annoyed at her for their position - she'd won that battle in the end, hadn't she? Being pureblood, wealthy, and connected had ultimately lead Draco to his death. But she'd survived the Dark Lord, escaped the persecution and risen above it. And how ironic was it that the tables were turned, and that she'd have to protect him?

Draco swallowed the brandy in his mouth, cringing against the bite as his smirk returned.

"You're usually such a wet blanket," he mused. "Nothing like me. I figured you'd go for some other party-pooper."

The only indication that Granger heard him was the light huff escaping her lips.

"Or at least someone who bleeds burgundy and gold."

No response; her jaw was set, her eyes hard as she stared down at the grass below the tower.

"And I suppose Weasley didn't hold your attention. Not quite blond enough for you."

Oh, that had gotten somewhere; Hermione's knuckles were taut over her arms as the breeze took her curls off her shoulders.

"But what I can't figure out is _why,_ " he continued. "What would make swotty Hermione Granger interested in a prick like me?"

He really should stop, he knew this; but her reactions were priceless, and the small amount of satisfaction and power rebalance he was getting from toying with her was like a drug - he needed endlessly more of it to forget the reality of this situation.

"I mean, you're so uptight. This can't make any sense to you either."

Draco examined her face - yes, her jaw was working now, the vein on her forehead popping.

This was fun, but the professor would be lying if he said he wasn't just curious, and was using this game as a way to dig into what the former Gryffindor was feeling. He hadn't spoken to her since the morning after their affair, and the nausea and pounding headache hadn't done anything to help him remember what he'd said to her.

"I can't even believe it, myself. You're so..." Draco's hand flew to his mouth.

"Oh my word!" he breathed, "Of course you're such a stick-in-the-mud... you don't need anything to drug you out, you're drugged out on danger, who will find out, what people would think... and a part of you hates yourself for what you did, but the stronger part of you wants to be naughty and try me out again-"

Hermione crossed the room in two bounds and before he knew what was happening, Draco found her grip solidly around his throat, crushing his windpipe with more force than he thought it could withstand.

"Don't - _pretend_ \- to understand what I want," Hermione hissed, her knee pressed against his navel, threatening to descend and put him in a world of hurt.

A fresh wash of fear consumed him as the unthinkable entered his consciousness; death had seemed like a dark shadow waiting on the edges of his room, but suddenly the darkness seemed to fill his private space as well. He'd spent ages assuming that the killer was some guy, some arsehole trying to come out on top, but he hadn't considered the alternative: that the killer's vendetta against pardoned and acquitted Death Eaters was more personal. And the cherry on the cake was himself, especially if the killer was... the woman currently strangling him.

"Gr... Y... Y-"

"Shut _up,_ prick," she scathed, pressing her knee into his belly. "I _could_ kill you, yes... in fact, sometimes I _do_ wish I'd thought of it. But why deny the killer their fun?"

He should have felt relieved, but all of his fear was directed at her now. And no matter if she was cleaning up the wizarding world herself or not, she was only one shade away from that path.

The silence dragged on, save for Draco's attempts to breathe; a part of him wished that she would just end him, finish the killer's work, so he didn't have to feel anything anymore, didn't have to wonder at what his life had become, what was left of it.

But he couldn't help but notice something else in her eyes, something that was keeping her from breaking his neck like he knew she could, and yet keeping her from releasing him as well.

"Cut the bullshit and kiss me," he gasped, staring up at her, knowing his face was splotching up but trying to keep it together for the sake of what he wanted to happen.

And in that moment, her features softened, and she looked more like the girl he remembered from school: bright eyes, bouncy, frizzy curls, carrying more books than she ought to as she traipsed down the corridor.

This Granger was a force of nature though, and he was ashamed of the fear that chilled him, fear he'd never had of her before. Fear that she hated him enough to kill him.

The edges of his vision were darkening, and he knew that if she didn't release him soon, that would be it for him.

But then her knee slipped to the side, and her grip descended and tightened around his tie, before pulling him up to meet her lips.

As her breath rushed into his starved lungs, he melted just a little; it was fresh air that he needed but this was far better, her wild exhale giving him life, resurrecting him as he reached for her.

She easily morphed from his prickly protector to a fiercely irresistible pursuit the moment she pressed her lips to his; everything that seemed so solid and forbidding about her before dissolved, inviting him in as he molded against her. He still wasn't confident that the darkness wouldn't claim him when she was finished - that she wasn't deflecting her true goal so she could kill him later - but he was accepting to anything that happened after this.

All he could hope now was that she offered what was left of her tenderness to him.

His brain hadn't quite caught up to his hands; the armor that had seemed so hard earlier curved and bent in his arms, the leather rough but the body underneath plush, encouraging him to squeeze and discover her limits. But, of course he already knew there weren't any.

His vision was still cloudy but his mind was clear, and his fingers shook as they moved of their own accord, pulling the laces that held her armor together, desperately prospecting for the skin underneath. With blood pumping in his ears he couldn't hear the sound of the wind anymore, just Granger's breath as she pulled his vest open, raking her nails over his chest.

He could honestly say that he loved catching those beautiful lips between his teeth, lips that had smiles for the rest of the world but never for him, lips that made him question his life. For how could someone so smart, so beautiful, so _formidable,_ ever be less than him? Ever fall for him?

And how could he ever be _worthy_ of her?

But none of that had to matter right now, as she was stripping his tie with quick motions, undoing his professor garb with deft fingers as she leaned over him. Draco knew this dance; he fumbled with the buckle of her utility belt and pulled her trousers down, so sharply he was surprised she didn't trip from the haste.

In fact, he managed to pull her trousers off over her Auror boots, leaving her legs bare save for the loosely-laced combat shoes. Hermione didn't seem to notice, and quickly pushed him back into the cushioned brocade as she leaned over him, arse now entirely bare.

"I can't protect you if we're shagging," she whispered, grappling at his trousers.

"Then we'd better make it good," he replied, and he reached forward and caught her arm, yanking her onto his lap.

The chair creaked dangerously as she spilled onto him, and her bare skin under his fingers was like cool water in a world on fire, it was sinfully good, it was precarious serenity that whispered promises of joy to come.

He desperately pushed his hands under her armor, trying to feel as much of her skin as possible, because he knew this was fleeting, knew that once her feet hit the ground the chance of this happening again was nill. For despite her earlier declaration of feelings Draco knew she wouldn't pursue him, not given what she knew about him and how he handled one-night-stands. What sane woman would?

So for now, he could enjoy this delight, the heat of her body as she pressed down on him, legs shaking as she found her balance.

And then he was completely engulfed in silky heaven, sweet and soft, nothing like the hard exterior of what she projected. He was struck with the irony of it - how she could be so soft, so plush under that facade of contemptuous indifference, all those prickly words and emotional walls, that rough leather armor.

Draco didn't think his heart had ever beat so fast; it wasn't just the pleasure, building with every wind of her hips, but the danger of being caught, the knowledge that there was an Auror just outside the door who could probably hear everything, and most of all there was a killer waiting for him to be vulnerable, waiting for him to slip so he could take Draco's life.

Draco groaned involuntarily, and Hermione's hand reconnected with his throat, forcing his head back as she used her grip as leverage against his body.

Draco was desperately raking his nails over her back as she moved, and this was so much better than he could have dreamed, because despite vague, half-formed fantasies of throwing her around and fucking her hard, this was infinitely more arousing: her pushing him to the edge of death as she used his body for her own pleasure. Even now she was punishing him, forcing him to want her the way she wanted him, forcing him to get a taste of her once more before his judgement.

"This is _mental,_ " he breathed, as his brain finally seemed to understand what was happening; a potent sense of regret flowed through him, mixing with the pleasure, as he thought about how he could have had this years ago, could have had this _for_ years. It was a wild thought, streaking through his mind like a flash of lightning, and it made him cast aside any other reservations he had about this. He didn't have any more room for questions about how safe this was, or about Granger's blood purity, or at least the fact that this chair wasn't made to take this kind of strain.

Somehow this made more sense than anything else he'd done recently, made more sense than the night they tried this ages ago, because he was not in a position to appreciate it back then, couldn't understand how precious this was.

She was moaning into his ear, and it was incredible to know what she was feeling, that his body was making her feel so good that she'd completely fallen apart, forgotten to be hard and unreadable. He savored this sight: Auror Granger, her eyes clouded as she lost herself in pleasure, nothing like her disinterested yet sharp gaze as she searched his quarters, or even like the skin-melting glare she'd leveled him with earlier.

There was a tender fragility to this; maybe it was the fact that he was going to die, if not tonight, then perhaps sometime soon, and this was their only opportunity; maybe it was the surrounding stone, the same stone he remembered from his childhood, and doing this now, here, re-entwined their stories at the start; maybe it was more memories of that night coming back to him, fleshing out as he could suddenly recall that her body had been different then, not as toned, and when he'd pulled her hair then she tried to choke him.

But her grip hadn't been anything like this - solid, unyielding, as even now Draco was struggling to breathe. For once he felt that they were sharing something honest: they weren't sparring to stroke their own egos or scratch away at their personal insecurity, and they weren't talking in circles about how much they disliked each other. There was something beneath all of that, something that had likely always been there, but the timing hadn't quite been right for them to pursue it.

They were pursuing it now though, as the clock - and his judgment - neared the hour. They were both already lost, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, and Draco's breath was coming out as short gasps as the former Gryffindor clenched his throat one last time as her body shuddered.

In that moment of clarity, everything made sense, not just about how he'd ended up here - monetarily destitute but spiritually fulfilled - but how he'd ended up _here,_ with his childhood rival shaking in his embrace. He was precisely what Granger shouldn't want - pureblood and privileged, with questionable moral standards and a history of making her and those like her feel inadequate. And he certainly shouldn't want her - the frizzy and opinionated muggleborn who didn't respect him simply because of his birthright.

The fact was, he was broken from the world... but then, so was she. He was emotionally unstable... but then, so was she.

She'd frustrated him for years, and he hadn't held that fact up to the light before; it wasn't at the forefront of his day-to-day thoughts. It only came when he saw her, when for a moment he remembered what had happened between them, and that uncomfortable frustration and aching feeling harrassed him amidst a hazy confusion. But all of that now made sense.

It wasn't just her with an unlikely crush.

Hermione had gone to jelly in his arms, and as her grip on his neck loosened, the professor exhaled heavily, relishing in the heat between their bodies.

"Draco," she breathed, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Yes, love?" he answered, face buried in her hair, inhaling deeply as his heart rate slowed.

When she didn't say anything, he leaned back to look into her eyes; her eyebrows were furrowed, eyes wide and gaze far away. It wasn't the expression of someone present in the moment, sharing his thoughts, but an expression he remembered from school - that determined look whenever she was puzzling through something, calculating how to create a potion or execute a task with spells she knew.

"You just figured something out," he murmured.

She nodded slowly, subconsciously sinking into his lap. Draco's grip on her waist tightened, and he nearly forgot what they were talking about as he leaned against her shoulder once more.

"We need to get you to the feast. Now," she breathed.

Draco chuckled softly, his breath cooling the sheen of sweat on her neck, and replied, "Not exactly what I wanted to hear-"

Hermione leaned back suddenly and withdrew from his lap, leaving his pants around his knees, shirt open, and his bits entirely exposed.

"Get dressed," she commanded, pulling on her Auror trousers quickly and resheathing her wand.

"Relax for a second, Granger, you just came-"

"We have no more than a few minutes before the Sorting ceremony," she put forth, tightening her chest piece in one quick pull.

Draco cocked his head, eyebrows knitted together. "I thought the point was that I need to _avoid_ that, so I don't get thumped?"

"Yes, but if you aren't there, the killer will try another day. We need to take them out. Tonight."

"I'm sorry," Draco said, yanking up his trousers and starting on his shirt buttons, "perhaps I have this wrong. Are you going to use me as bait?"

"For lack of a better answer, yes," she responded, tossing him his tie; he caught it in an unsteadied flourish, his shirt falling open again.

As he finished with his vest, Hermione closed and locked the window, craning to look around where the boats were docked on the far side of the lake. The boats were already empty, riding the glassy black ripples as a row of torches ascended from the pier.

" _Malfoy!_ " she exasperated.

"Alright, just-" and he downed the rest of his brandy, adjusting his tie with the other hand as Hermione spoke an illusion incantation.

She waved her wand in a circular pattern around herself, transforming her armor, and as it began to shimmer Draco was horrified to see an inkling of what she was transmogrifying it to look like.

"For Merlin's sake," he breathed as she dusted off what appeared to be a Gryffindor vest, "as if I wasn't already buggered!"

She shrugged, smirking as she quickly unlatched the door.

In the doorway, the other Auror snapped to attention, his ears noticeably redder than a Blood Pop.

"Auror Granger?" he questioned.

"Get me a list of the students being sorted tonight and the Marauder's Map. Now!" she barked, and the Auror nodded once and took off at a run down the staircase.

"Yup, he definitely heard everything," Draco mused.

Hermione pointedly ignored him, pulling him down the spiral staircase after the Auror and into the corridor. The torches were lit, casting long shadows from them as they jogged to the door at the end of the hall.

No more than a minute later, the young Auror reappeared, holding two spots of parchment; Hermione snatched them up and scanned the first, her finger following the names.

Draco tried to read along with her, but they were just names on a parchment with no meaning. Heather Thompson, Beatrice Lancaster, Harold Price, Amy Hollingworth...

"Are you going to tell me what you're planning?" he asked.

"Go and sit at the head table as though you've been in the loo," Hermione said finally, folding the list. "The students already know something is up with the increased security, so don't frighten them."

"Of course. If you'll recall, I'm an exceptional liar," he muttered, straightening his tie.

Hermione gave him a withering look as she put the square of parchment in her pocket and said, "I'm going to enter through the main doors. If you see something suspicious, signal to me." She quickly waved her wand over her hair, and the brown curls broke out of their hold and fell into long, golden waves.

Draco swallowed and nodded, and watched her depart, her skirt swishing around her knees as she disappeared into the dark corridor.

 _Anapneo. Finite incantatem. Repulso. Protego. Anapneo..._

With one last breath, he opened the private door behind the head table, cringing at the noise of the heavy door and the sudden burst of light from the illuminated hall. His vision swimming, he walked as steadily as he could to his seat, right beside Professor Patil, who greeted him with wide eyes and an open mouth.

"Not a word, Patil," Draco said jovially, feigning a smile to the room and seating himself quickly.

"Are you mad, Malfoy? The Blood Killer is going to get you!" Parvati whispered behind her wine glass.

"Just another day in the life," he quipped, tapping his empty glass on the table and watching it fill. The first years were already being funneled through the doors, and as he craned to look he saw Hermione's golden hair bobbing behind the Gryffindor table as she ran to sit in the front.

Draco sipped his wine, casting furtive glances at the waiting students every so often; despite the fact that sweat had broken out under his collar, he was determined to appear normal, unaffected, if not for the killer then at least for his colleagues, who were still glancing at him incredulously.

Professor McGonagall stood, sparing him a fierce look as she approached the winged podium at the head of the room. Compared to her towering position, the first years before her looked like the simpering children they were. Draco narrowed his eyes around the room, trying to figure out where the killer would strike. Was the prick under a table? Disguised as one of the Aurors lining the room? _Behind_ him?

Draco's neck prickled, and he resisted the urge to turn and glance behind him; he was already attracting unwanted attention from his colleagues and even some of the students, it wouldn't do well to appear nervous.

He snapped back to reality, realizing that the first new student was already seated on the derelict oak stool, the withered Sorting Hat upon her head as she kicked her legs. The silence was only broken by whispers around the room, bets being placed as other kids tried to stereotype what house the poor girl would be in. To the left of the group, the blond waves of his prickly protector moved ever so slightly, brown eyes trained on him.

As the second, third, and forth students went up to the Sorting Hat and the group of younglings started to thin, Draco was getting even more anxious; if the killer didn't attack soon dinner would be in full swing, and Draco certainly didn't want to die by poisoning. Had the Aurors checked the kitchens? Had they questioned the house elves? Surely an elf would know if the food had been tampered with...

And once the students went off to their dormitories, the corridors would be full of people, and a silent spell later the killer could incapacitate Draco, end his life, then disappear into the crowd.

Or perhaps the chandelier above him was loosened, and maybe the killer didn't just want to kill him but others as well, and was aiming to take out all the pureblood teachers - Slughorn, Vector, Patil...

 _... Anapneo. Finite incantatem. Protego -_

Cold fear washed through Draco as one moment, a small boy was stepping up to the Sorting Hat; the next, he saw a wand descend from within the pack of quivering first years, already morphed to suit the wielder's personality, something that didn't happen until perhaps fourth year, once the wizard reached puberty.

There was unmistakably an adult among the children.

Draco stood suddenly, his gaze fixed on the cluster of students, and Hermione took the cue, rising to her feet as well, her mouth opened to shout.

And then there was nothing but sparks and crashes as spells flew, and Draco launched to the ground as a familiar green curse sailed towards him, missing him by a fraction of a second.

His heart thumping, throat still smarting from the trauma earlier in the evening, Draco was suddenly beset by the urge to live, to fight, to try to survive this madness that had fallen upon him - no, madness he had _earned_ with past mistakes.

 _Anapneo -_

No, he couldn't just think about himself. What was the killer thinking, putting children in danger like this? No young life was worth the life of a former Death Eater, that was the whole point. This was just - Draco _had_ to fight this. If not for himself, then at least for his students.

He took a few shaky breaths against the stone floor, wand sweaty in his grip, and stood into the chaos.

The room was alight with flashes and streaks, wands centered around the standing first years as students and teachers alike shot back and forth; Draco knew he had only moments to locate the murderer before his life was over, before the killer vanished with another Death Eater crossed off his list.

Draco spotted a hint of stubble in the cluster of crouching first-years, and time seemed to slow down as he aimed his wand, just as a pair of blue eyes caught his.

" _Petrificus totalus!_ " he yelled.

His vision was too hazy to make sense of anything, but he also knew that he had impeccable aim - a necessary trait of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher - and before he could determine what had happened, his heart was already calming.

"Hold your spells!" Hermione roared, arm raised as she rushed into the thick of black robes as first years ducked away. As the students moved, Draco sighed heavily - there was a man on the floor, arms and legs glued together. He was struggling in his full-body bind, still managing to twitch just a little despite the spell. Four black piles of robes were crumpled around him, the unconscious bodies of some unfortunate first years caught in the crossfire; Professor Slughorn and Madam Pomfrey flew into the crowd, releasing full-body binds, nursing stinging jinxes, and administering antidotes to struck students and Aurors.

Draco walked on shaky legs towards the killer, coming to a stop over him as the man stared up in hatred.

"Bloody hell, I was right," Draco breathed, pointing at him. "That's Aramis Dolohov there. The prick's son."

Three Aurors picked up the stiff body, hauling him away before Draco could land more than one kick to the man's ribs. Auror Granger immediately put a steadying hand on his shoulder, her stern gaze chilling him into inaction immediately.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice more annoyed than concerned.

"Given that we were shagging earlier, I'd say I feel pretty good," he replied, and then winced in pain as Hermione dug her nails into the meat below his shoulder.

"Urgh, you're alright," she muttered, giving his shoulder one last painful clench before shoving him away.

The Aurors had already fixed the burns on the stone, and with the injured students taken care of, the lively chatter in the room resumed, as students gossiped and exclaimed about the night they had witnessed the end of a reign. Draco tried not to listen too hard; despite his own ideas about his teaching, he wasn't the most popular professor, and he didn't want to hear anything that would put him back into a state of depression, wishing for Aramis Dolohov to take his pain away.

Instead, Draco trailed after his protector. He followed her aimlessly as she spoke orders to her team, waiting by her side like a phantom, his breath shallow as he tried to gain control of himself.

As the Aurors finally went to their respective tasks, Draco leaned next to the hardened commander as she stood against the wall, surveying the room.

"Do you want to explain to me what happened?" he asked.

Auror Granger sighed heavily, her gaze darting, and said, "The only living beings who would be present tonight not searched, not questioned, not checked at the gate, simply because they wouldn't arrive by the gate, were... the first years."

"But how did you know..."

"It wasn't the pleasure of killing you under our protection that was the killer's goal; it was the audience of the students. He wanted it to look like the young ones killed you, reversing the way you put them in danger eight years ago. He wanted to make an example of you. That once you're a dark wizard, you can't escape from it."

Draco nodded, his heart finally beginning to slow as he watched the students reclaim their seats at the tables.

"Do you believe that?" he asked quietly. "That I can't escape?"

She shrugged, her attention still directed towards the tables; the room was alight with murmurs as the food suddenly appeared, and the last students and Aurors alike found seats and began to tuck in, the fright of the previous few minutes forgotten. Draco had never felt less hungry for food in his life, and he subconsciously sank against the wall.

A moment later, Auror Granger turned and departed towards the main doors, and before he could stop himself Draco was following her, matching her steps as they came into the main corridor.

"I never apologized to you," he rushed as he caught up to her, "for everything."

Hermione stopped, and Draco came to stand in front of her, finding her gaze. Her eyes, those unremarkable brown eyes that he had rarely taken notice of before, seemed to glitter in the light of the torches above them.

She stared back steadily, took a deep breath and replied, "It's a little late for that, Malfoy. Besides..."

She took a slow step towards him, leaned in close, and for an exhilarating moment Draco was back in his worn armchair with her winding on his lap; he could smell her hair again, as well as the faint smell of sex, stirring his interest once more. The skin of his neck prickled as a drip of sweat descended down his throat, and he swallowed. Hermione continued, her voice lowered, "You now have time to make it up to me."

Something profound unwound in his chest, and he was ashamed to feel his cheeks alight with heat as she passed him, forcing him to turn unwillingly to keep her in his sights.

"See you around, Professor," she murmured, the corner of her lips turned up as she treaded towards the night, the blue of the moon igniting the edges of her hair.

Draco sighed, fighting the fluttery feeling in his belly as he watched her walk away.

 **The End.**


End file.
